Patricia St John Series

by Patricia St John

  “Don't look so surprised, Lucy,” he said. “This is your old nurse, Lola, and this is Rosita, who was born the same month as you; you shared her cot! And this is Pepito, who was a fat baby when I last saw him. The others I don't know yet, but you'll soon learn to understand them.”

  “Pedro, Conchita,” said Lola proudly, pushing them forward, “and Francisco,” she added, pulling a sleepy, blinking baby out of a crib and holding him up. Then she dumped him in Rosita's arms and turned to my father, laughing and waving her hands about. To my great surprise he appeared to understand, and spoke back to her in Spanish.

  The family escorted us to two whitewashed rooms at the back of the house opening onto a courtyard with a great vine growing overhead. A low table in the middle of it was set for supper, which was brought in by the whole family—potato omelettes, bottles of wine, Spanish paella, and big red slices of watermelon. The heat and the smell of oil were making me feel quite dizzy, so Lola helped me into bed. Before I lay down, I opened the window that looked out onto the beach and heard the sound of small waves breaking and drawing back over pebbles. Tomorrow … tomorrow.

  The sun streaming into the room and the cries of the fishermen woke me early the next morning, and I rushed to the window and breathed in the salty, fishy air and watched them pull in the nets and excitedly sort the catch. To me it was as fascinating as a play, and I think I would have stayed there for hours watching the sparkling sea and the busy beach if Rosita had not put her head around the door and signaled for me to follow her.

  I soon got ready. My father was still asleep, and a singing girl was cleaning the little bar. I was dazzled by the bright early sunlight in the streets and the colors of the little town. Wherever we went, Rosita introduced me proudly as her friend—“Lucita, mi amiga.”

  It was the first of many happy mornings, for life in Spain followed a happy pattern. Lola and Rosita kept very busy running the inn as well as doing all the household chores. I helped where I could while my father got on with his writing. I had my meals with him at the table under the vine. He often looked weary and ill after a morning's writing and seemed out of breath, but he was always gentle and glad of my company, and we talked for ages about all sorts of things. Only one subject we had never touched on, and I used to think it came between us, until one afternoon we suddenly found ourselves talking about it.

  “Daddy,” I said, “did Mummy know Lola and Rosita?”

  He nodded. “They were great friends, and both expecting their first babies at the same time. I was brought up in Spain, and I thought there was nowhere like it. I wanted your mother to love it, too, and we kept a successful little guest house just across the street. When you were born and she died, Lola fed you and brought you up with Rosita. I gave up the business, came here to this room as a paying guest, and tried to get on with my writing. But I think I stopped caring about anything, except you, and I didn't write much.”

  “But why didn't you go to Gran and Grandpa's?”

  “I wasn't the sort of man they wanted for their daughter, Lucy, and when she married me secretly, against their wishes, they more or less cut me off. Alice planned to take you home on a visit—she was sure it would all blow over then. She hated to be on bad terms with anyone, and sure enough, when she died, they tried hard to get in touch. But at that point I suppose I cut them off. I only knew one thing clearly then, and that was that I wanted to keep you by me. You're very like her, Lucy, and I always wished I'd known her as a child and could have watched her grow up.”

  “And then?”

  “How much have your grandparents told you?”

  “Only what I told you. I asked Grandpa and he didn't know much—just that you went to prison.”

  “I'll tell you everything. I met a drug dealer by chance in a café, although I think now that he'd been following me for some time. I was just the man he wanted. I'd lived in Spain for years, knew the language, needed money badly, and was half crazy with grief. At first it all seemed quite small, but by the time I realized what a big affair it was, it was too late to pull out. They can get very nasty with people who turn against them. Besides, in a way, I was quite enjoying it.”

  “But why did you enjoy it when it was so wrong?” He looked rather sad. “I didn't think about it being wrong then. I was so lonely without your mother I just wanted something to make me forget—I didn't care very much what. Smuggling was dangerous and exciting, and I didn't stop to think about what I was handling. It brought me lots of money too. I bought a car for myself and things for you and Rosita.” He smiled and lit another cigarette.

  “And then?”

  “Well, it all got bigger and bigger until I realized I was involved in a huge international heroin ring. And by then, as I said, it was too late to get out. I did it for three years, taking bigger and bigger risks. My big mistake was going to England to meet a contact. The police were waiting for me at the airport, and that was that. I'm glad I wasn't taken in Spain, or I might never have been allowed back.”

  “And then you went to prison?”

  “Well, they let me settle you up with your grandparents first, and then, yes, I was sent to prison for ten years, but they cut it down to nine.”

  “Well,” I said thoughtfully, “I don't think it was all that bad. I mean, it's not as bad as stealing or killing people, is it?” My father became very serious. “Lucy,” he said, “to start someone taking drugs is far, far worse than killing him outright. I soon realized that when I got to prison and had time to think. Never, never have anything to do with it.”

  “Then were you very sorry in prison? Was it very nasty?”

  “You mustn't think prisons in England are cruel places. I spent a lot of time in the infirmary where I was very well treated indeed. But the evenings were pretty bad, locked in those cells, with nothing to do but think. Fortunately, I had my writing. I had plenty to write about by that time. What really made me sorry was missing you growing up, and all through my own stupid fault.”

  “But weren't you ever sorry because … well, sort of … because of God?”

  “God, Lucy? Believe in God if you like, but He never did much for me except take my wife. No, I was sorry about the lives I'd helped to ruin, and I wanted to be different because of you. You're all I've got now. Old friends kind of disappear when you come out of prison. There's only you.”

  “But why didn't anyone tell me? Then I could have come and seen you.”

  “I agreed with your grandparents that it was far better for you not to know while you were little. It's no fun having a father in prison of whom you're ashamed. Children ask questions. You'd never have felt safe.”

  “But why didn't you tell us it was you when you came out?”

  “Because I wanted to introduce myself and get to know you in my own way. If your grandparents had known, they'd have turned you right against me, wouldn't they? You know they would.”

  His voice was hard and bitter, and I was rather uneasy because Gran would have considered this shocking talk, but somehow talking to Dad was quite different from talking to Gran or even Grandpa. Gran knew all the answers and always told me what I ought to think about everything. If I happened to think differently, then I was wrong, and it had always seemed very peaceful and safe.

  But this man with his sad, questioning eyes and wounded past did not know all the answers, and he wanted me to think and find out for myself.

  Our talk was interrupted by an excited knocking on the door, and Pepito burst in with a letter.

  “Lucita!” he shouted and thrust it at me. It was my second letter from my grandparents, and a rush of homesickness came over me as I took it, as though they were stretching out steadying hands across the miles.

  I stood up. “I'm going under the trees to read my letter,” I said, and Dad smiled and nodded. I had discovered a farm, an old stone cross, and a plantation of olive trees. This was the shadiest place I knew, and I went toward it clutching my precious letter.

  People who lived near the
inn were beginning to know me, and I had already picked up a few words of Spanish and enjoyed greeting people in the friendly Spanish way. But today the neighborhood was very quiet and only one old woman, dressed in black, sat at the door of her house with a tortoise-shell colored cat beside her.

  Something about her reminded me of Gran. For the first time since arriving in Spain, I felt really homesick. I turned to the old woman and found her looking at me kindly. I was strangely attracted, and when she moved over, I sat down on the step beside her and stroked the cat. This pleased her, and she turned and opened the door of the house and pointed to a basket of kittens under the table.

  I went to play with them for a few minutes, and as I did so I looked around. The room was very bare and very clean; just a bed, a rush mat, a table and chair, a box, and on it a big black Book that looked like Gran's family Bible. I looked at it more closely. It was a Bible—the words La Biblia were engraved in gold on the cover. So this old woman believed in God, and if what Gran said was true, God was the only Person who could help me choose whose side to take.

  I said good-bye to the old woman, and she stroked my hair and made signs to me to come again. I nodded and trotted off along the dirt track to the olive trees and began to read my letter.

  They had both written. Gran's letter was full of good advice. “We pray for you every day,” it ended, “and ask God to take care of you. Say your prayers every night and trust in your heavenly Father.”

  Grandpa's letter was full of anxious love and news about the vegetables and Shadow, the cat and the church fête, all the little bits of home that I wanted to hear.

  I sat for a long time reading and rereading my letters, and I finally turned back to the end of Gran's. “Say your prayers every night, and trust your heavenly Father.”

  God? “Believe in God if you like, Lucy, but He's never done anything for me except take my wife!”

  Oh, who was right and how could I find out? Would that dull old Book tell me anything I wanted to know? I would try again, for I felt torn in half, and I really needed to know, for the great question was still unresolved. Who was I really going to belong to?

  Today was Friday. Only two days till Sunday, and then we would all go to church. Maybe I would find my answer then.

  I Find an Answer

  We spent most of Saturday on the beach, swimming and playing around the boats and rock pools. In the afternoon my father walked along the coast with us to a lonely bay with white sand, where we looked for shells. I lay on the hot rocks and gazed into a pool like a miniature garden, with starfish, sea anemones, waving seaweeds, and tiny snails. I thought God must be a wonderful Creator to design such fragile beauty.

  On Sunday we were having breakfast on our little patio, and the church bells were pealing out all over the town.

  “Daddy,” I said firmly, “it's Sunday. Can I go to church like I do at home, and can I have a Bible to read?”

  “I'm afraid I haven't got a Bible,” he said, “and since the churches in this town are all in Spanish, you wouldn't understand a word. Besides, they're not the kind of churches you've been used to.” He hesitated, as though he had more to say.

  “Lucy,” he said at last, “why do you want to go to church? Does it mean anything to you at all? Do you go just because Gran tells you to? And do you read your Bible because it helps you or makes a difference to you? Or is it because you've been taught it's the right thing to do? Think it out and give me an answer. I really want to know. I don't like people who just pretend to be good or religious, and I don't want you to be one.”

  I stared at him. I knew that none of the answers I could have given would satisfy him.

  Lola and the children had gone to Mass in their best Sunday clothes, and the bells had stopped ringing. My father seemed more breathless than usual, and I hadn't the heart to ask him to come to the beach, so I sat beside him and wrote to Gran. Then I went down to the beach to look for shells by myself.

  We were invited to dinner at the inn kitchen where we gathered around the table under sides of bacon and bunches of herbs and garlic hanging from the ceiling. Several bottles of wine were drunk and everyone became very happy and talkative. By the time we finished, it was late in the afternoon. Sunday was hurrying past, and I had still found no answer to Dad's question, nor any solution to my problem. For the first time I felt really lonely, and I thought of the old woman up the hill. I would go to visit her.

  “Daddy,” I said, “I'm going to visit an old woman who lives on the other side of those eucalyptus trees. Can I take one of our peaches to her?”

  “Take her two, Lucy.” He picked out the best and put them in a bag. “I'm glad you're making friends around here. You'll be chattering Spanish in no time, and I want you to love Spain. Don't go far, and come back before sunset.”

  I slipped out quietly in case the other children saw me and wanted to come with me. I liked being with them, and I loved Rosita, my amiga, but now I wanted to be alone. It was still very hot, and I was glad for the shade of the eucalyptus trees. I liked their smell, the rustle of their dry leaves, and the whirring sound of the cicadas that made such a noise but that I could never see.

  I walked slowly, thinking about Dad's question. What did church really mean to me? I thought of Sunday at home—putting on my best clothes, singing the hymns as loudly as I could, making up stories and poems during the sermon and hoping it wouldn't be too long, Grandpa falling asleep and Gran looking at us out of the corner of her eye, the prospect of a roast for Sunday dinner, my favorite pudding, and a free afternoon. Did church really mean anything more? I couldn't honestly say that it did, except very occasionally, like on Good Friday or Easter Day.

  When I came to the house at the edge of the vineyards, there was no one to be seen. They were probably all still having a siesta and would come to life at sundown. So I knocked rather timidly at the old woman's door, and it was opened immediately by her little granddaughter. I peeped in, and there was my friend sitting at the table, her glasses on her nose, reading her Bible.

  Why? What did it mean to her? Something, I was sure, judging from the look on her face. Since I couldn't speak to her, I did a strange thing. I went straight up to her and put the peaches on the table. Then I pointed to the Book and repeated the word that the children at the inn said about a hundred times a day: “Por que?” Why?

  She did not seem at all surprised. She just pointed to a word on the page, and I squatted down beside her to look. The word was Jesus. It was the same in English as it was in Spanish. She spelled, pointed upward, then said very simply, “Jesus es mi Amigo.”

  Amigo—it was the word Rosita used when we walked down the road arm in arm and she introduced me to everybody. Amiga, because I was a girl, but the same word. “Jesus is my Friend.”—not someone in history, but near and alive. I suddenly realized as I gazed at the page that praying and Bible reading and churchgoing were no longer three roads leading into the mist. The mist was clearing, and the roads were leading to a bright center. They led to Jesus—not a person in a storybook who died hundreds of years ago, but Someone who was alive now. He was the old woman's Friend, and I saw no reason why He shouldn't be my Friend too. For I suddenly knew that this was what I had been looking for all the time … not words, or rules, but a Person.

  The discovery was so great that I wanted to stay near this old woman whose Friend was Jesus, but we couldn't find any more words in common. Somehow I found myself on the dirt track that led to the farm, and there in front of me was the stone cross, which now seemed very important because it was on a cross that my Friend Jesus had died.

  “Thank You,” I said, looking up at it, and at that moment I knew what saying my prayers really meant. It was just talking to my Friend, saying thank You, telling Him things and knowing that He was listening. It was too hot to stay long near the cross, but I sat under an olive tree nearby and stared across at it and started to talk to Him. I asked Him never to let me tell lies again, and I asked Him to show me how to choose
, and I asked Him to make my grandparents and my father like each other so that we could all be one family.

  The stone cross cast a long shadow along the path, and in my imagination the dirt track, lit up in the mellow light of the sunset, seemed like the beginning of a new life. I could set out on this bright road with all my tangled, troubled past behind me and Jesus, my Friend, beside me. I loved Him and longed for a Bible, because it no longer seemed like a dull, old history book, but a Book where I could learn more about my Friend.

  The sun disappeared as I came out through the eucalyptus wood, and the sky was streaked with crimson. Lights were coming on in the shops, and the town was waking up. My father was sitting at a table on the pavement having a drink. I sat down beside him, happy, hot, and thirsty, and he ordered me a lemonade.

  “Daddy,” I said eagerly, “you know what you asked me?”

  “When, Lucy?”

  “This morning—about church and the Bible.”

  “Oh yes. Have you thought about it?”

  “Yes, and I know the answer. The old woman told me.”

  “What? In Spanish?”

  “Yes, and I understood. I know now!”

  “Really? Do tell me!”

  “I want to go to church and I want to read my Bible because … because Jesus is my Friend.”

  I expected him to smile that twisty smile of his, but he didn't. He just looked at me, and then replied very gently, “In that case, Lucy, I'll get hold of a Bible for you as soon as I can, and if there's such a thing here, and if you're happy to go on your own, I'll find an English church service for you.”

  A Trip to Gibraltar

  Waking up the next morning, everything seemed the same as usual: the patch of sunlight on the wall, the lap of waves on the pebbles, the shouts of the fishermen. But then I remembered that everything was different—I was no longer a troubled child, pulled in two directions, not knowing what to believe or where to turn.